New War
by Pridesen
Summary: "John Watson hated the colour red. No, scratch that. He hated what that colour symbolized. And to him it symbolized the day he had lost everything."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm posting way too many one-shots. Oh, well. A big thanks to my best friend who helped me with this (in a way). Hope it's alright. And yeeees I know it's short.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, even if I wanted to.**

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John Watson hated the color red. No, scratch that. He hated what that color symbolized. And to him it symbolized the day he had lost everything. Or well, not _everything_; he still had what he needed to stay alive. But he didn't have what he needed to truly _live_. John still remembered the day like it was yesterday, every second of it. Every painful moment he had hoped it was not true. That he was just dreaming. But of course he wasn't, because in dreams such horrible things don't happen. In dreams, people don't _die_. That's what nightmares are for, but somehow he knew it couldn't be a nightmare either. It was too horrifying, even for his subconscious, to think of. Besides he remembered the blood stained face and glassy eyes too clearly for it to be unreal. It had happened exactly one year ago. John had been broken from inside for that long. Now all he had left to do was to stare at the wall of their- no, _his_ apartment and feel numb. He didn't have anymore tears to shed; he had already cried enough for a lifetime. He didn't have what it took to visit his grave - it would break down the walls he had so carefully tried to build up. He didn't even have the courage to move away from 221B Baker Street, neither the will to touch any of Sherlock's stuff. All in all, John Watson was a broken man because of Sherlock Holmes.

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One would think that your best friends (_or more than a best friends?_) suicide would drive you off the road for a couple of months, maybe even three. But in John's case, that was a complete understatement. The first half a year had already been bad enough, adding the constant worry of his friends. He did appreciate the help they had tried to offer, he really did, but it felt like they had all been _watching_ him, instead of comforting. Lestrade had visited him every other day, and sometimes even Mycroft had come along. Mrs. Hudson had spend all of her free time with him, making tea and talking about what was going on in the world. Occasionally, Molly would pop up and try to cheer his mood. But eventually they gave up, when the only response they got was a closed door.

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The year leading to this day had truly been miserable. John had only got out of the apartment to eat. He had not answered his phone, and had ignored the pile of letters that had been lying on the kitchen table for months. But today,_ today_ was the worst out of all. Today was the day he had watched Sherlock jump. Fly trough the air and hit the pavement. Watch the blood spill on his dark curls as his bones crushed. And how his last words, his _last words_ had been- "_No_. Don't think about it," John whispered to himself in the dark living room. His voice echoed trough the quiet space, finding every corner of it. "Don't think about it. Not anymore." But his words were meaningless - he would never stop thinking about that day. It would haunt him till the day he died. The memory of Sherlock Holmes was his new war he had to fight. And this was a war John Watson had no hope of winning.

**Sooo that was that. Reviews are appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: IF YOU REVIEW, I DON'T WANT ANY SPOILERS FOR SEASON THREE, it won't be aired in here until the 19th of this month, so thank you and bye. **

John had thought about death. He had thought about it so much, he had already partly understood the concept of it. Death had - and always would - take people, even and _especially _when they didn't want to go. Death had stolen Sherlock Holmes, too. No; Sherlock had searched it and knocked at it's door many times. And now, finally, Death had welcomed him in, leaving John alone on the porch step. He wanted to follow Sherlock to the place he had gone, but everytime he was about to pull the trigger, something stopped him. Or rather some_one_. He could see Sherlock's dissapointed look, could imagine him saying "Really, John? Never thought _you _to be so dramatic", or something along those lines. And so everytime John put the gun down.

John had started to see his therapist again. Not that he thought she could _really _help him - no one could. But it was better than nothing. Also, it made his friends stop breathing into his neck all the time and asking stupid questions about his well-being. So John found himself sitting on the same chair as always, discussing his life and emotions. And Sherlock. Mostly Sherlock. She had asked John how exactly did he feel about Sherlock, but he couldn't explain it. "There are no words for that", he had replied, to be exact. The session had ended up when John stormed off after she mentioned that maybe it had something to do with _love_.

It took John a couple of weeks before he went back. He apologized for earlier and they continued to talk like nothing had happened. But something had. She had put an idea in John's head, an idea that had already been there, hidden somewhere deep. And now John was forced to think about that idea. Think about the fact that maybe, just _maybe _he had actually loved Sherlock. Loved him a little more than he should've. The subject itself was never brought up again, not out loud, but it didn't change the facts._ John had loved Sherlock._

Maybe, John thought, if he had realized earlier and told Sherlock how he felt, this would've never happened. Maybe Sherlock would've never jumped, leaving John alone. Things could've been different. And that led John to think: What if Sherlock jumped because of him? What if Sherlock had felt exactly like John, but kept it to himself? Bottled it inside of him, never saying a word to anyone. John knew that no matter how many _maybe's _and _what if's _he thought, Sherlock wouldn't come back. Still it didn't make him stop blaming himself for the events of that day. John Watson had officially lost the war in his head and heart.

**The end?**


End file.
